Dear Two Dudes at Table 17:

Worthless. That's what you are. I knew you were squirrelly. You touched me in a familiar way. Anyone douchey enough to get handsy with the server is douchey enough to walk their tab.

In retrospect, you're lucky that we didn't find you. I was ready to call the cops and prosecute (it's called theft of services, look it up). My boss was ready to fight you. And my very large server friend from the Tuscan Italian joint next door swept through the Loon and Uptown Pub with me on my hunt, Brute Squad-ing people out of my way. The three of us covered the entire West Village. At one point during my hunt, my shoes came off.

My anger increased exponentially with each second thereafter. Did you hear me? I was shoeless! Me! And, I still didn't find you.

I did smoke the hell out of a cigarette, though. So, let's just hope that you'll get yours in the end. We all do.

Coughingly,
Heather